


A (not so) Grim story

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eurus is kinda decent, Everyone is Dead, Fix-It of Sorts, Lies uncovered, M/M, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Sad because everyone dies, Sad with a Happy Ending, Uplifting (hopefully), because s4 ruined characters' potential too much, church grim, technically graveyard grim, well that's a big kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 09:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: After death, most of the Holmes family (which definitely includes Mrs. Hudson) is shocked. Thankfully, the surprise is a pleasant one. A Halloween story.





	A (not so) Grim story

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own a thing. This story is inspired by the myth of church grims, which is a variation on a very common myth my brother mentioned.

 

They never became a picture perfect family – then again, perfection was boring – but over the decades, the Holmes became…less dysfunctional. It took a lot of proper parenting – mostly by Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – to finally have all the siblings mostly behaving. Eventually, they met the Holmes parents, and boy were there words. Martha could deal with creepy clients when she was a stripper, and then mobsters and junkies, and get out of drug trafficking without anyone daring to make a peep. That simply didn’t happen. If she could put the fear of God into them, mummy – no matter how brilliant she was – didn’t stand a chance. You couldn’t talk circles around Mrs. Hudson.     

By the time she passed on, she could be sure that England wouldn’t fall despite the sudden lack of a tea provider, compulsive baker and – most of all – wise hint dropper. Oh, and professional bullshit caller. God knew that there was a dire need of one.

Mycroft had finally realised that she-of-the-many-names, his PA (her actual name being Margaret, which caused the nickname Daisy and her idea to cycle through plant-related aliases) took care of him for more reasons  than professionalism. When one’s fridge is terrifyingly empty, and still one doesn’t starve, someone else is keeping one fed. A PA might remind their boss of a planned engagement with dinner included, or even book a table for them if requested. Anthea-Briony-Calla-Daisy(…) showed up with food apparently randomly, but obviously carefully planned so Mycroft would be well-fed (and happy). And even if they didn’t speak about it, the times the food was her own creation were the majority.

Still it took a random quip by John for Martha to learn this detail, and sigh about how the way to a man's heart through his stomach was a long and thankless one, to make Mycroft reconsider things. He’d always been grateful to her, and harboured a penchant which he carefully hid as it’d be all kinds of improper. But with a new outlook, and a sharp reminder not to care for juvenile teasing – as Sherlock had never outgrown that, evidently – he was confident enough to open himself. Martha could leave assured that neither his fridge nor his bedroom were empty and cold anymore, even if on the job no one was any the wiser.

Sherlock – my God, that boy required a _massive_ intervention. Years and years of care, cleaning, cooking, making him discover new shows, and – as soon as John was in the picture – pushing.  If Mycroft only needed a couple of hints, Sherlock was so afraid of losing what he already had, that she had to all but physically bonk her boys’ heads together while yelling at them to stop being cowards – and goodness, was  she tempted to. In the end, her interventions were less subtle and more proactive, but they were physically painful to watch. Thank God that they eventually stopped being ridiculous, if only for Rosie’s sake. That girl needed a family, and she wouldn’t be denied the best and most loving one she could hope for only because her parents were scared silly. Children do change things so. 

She had no idea about the third, of course. Way too many people didn’t, and yes, she’d rather not have had the flat in shambles. But the Holmes kids didn’t play safely…and when Sherlock came back, already planning his next visit, his next concert, well, there was only a thing she could do. Thankfully Mycroft was still floating from his newly-requited love, and his brother knew that Eurus wasn’t the devil incarnate, so when she asked to be allowed a visit, too, it was approved. And thank God because someone had to counter their stupid parents finding her again (as if it was normal that they dropped her like a hot potato before).

At first, naturally, the girl was wary. She spit at Martha that she’d have better luck asking _Mycroft_ for a refund. Mrs. Hudson’s homemade biscuits, though (which Eurus _will_ have, regulations or no regulations)  had tamed bigger and meaner people…and wrongfooted the poor girl long enough to start a conversation. And boy, was she thirsty for one!  The old lady was tempted to get a good birch and take it to 99% of the people who ever interacted with this lost soul.

Yes, Eurus needed some limits set – she needed them…oh, twenty years ago, if their parents could be bothered. There were ways to get through to anyone, and Martha was a firm believer in that. But saying nobody should talk to her, or they’d be…what…under her thrall? Despite the lack of proper sunlight, she wasn’t a vampire, you know. She _was_ terribly intelligent and persuasive, but then again, wasn’t Sherlock? Wasn’t Mycroft?

Still, Mrs. Hudson _got_  her more than her brothers did, at the moment – of course you came back here, dearie, it’s home to you – which shocked poor Eurus so much she started actually listening to her. The princess would never completely leave her castle – nevermind the other captives – but eventually, with everyone’s help, she was allowed the key…Which she obviously could steal/scam someone into giving her already, but it was so different when you didn’t have to.   

Nobody expected Eurus to make a fuss about turning their old mansion’s fake graveyard (and honestly, what sane person built such a thing permanently) into an actual one, and having Mrs. Hudson inaugurate it. She wouldn’t give her reasons, but she pestered them for long enough to get her way. Good for her that Mycroft can get around any pesky rule about that. Certainly, Martha didn’t mind. She’d never been one of these people who spent a life devising how they wanted their funeral and tomb to be.  She was just buried when she understood why, though.

It was the shadow of a dog, blood-red and sodden, and someone else might have been spooked. But she was already dead, after all. What could happen to her? So she knelt on the fresh earth. The dog seemed more afraid than she was, to be honest. He walked up to her slowly, sniffed her, and then stood in front of her, head hanging down. She couldn’t resist. She petted him, cooing. “Good boy. You’re adorable, do you know? The best, loveliest dog I’ve ever seen.” Soon he was licking her ear and wagging his tail.

When the light beckoned to her, Mrs. Hudson tried to have him follow her. But the pup sat down and was very clear about meaning to stay…so she actually played fetch with him a few times before following her path. After all, the poor thing looked awfully lonely.

When it was his turn to depart, decades later, Mycroft expected to be brought to their private cemetery…but he certainly didn’t expect their guest. “She said…oh, she lied, of course. Well, what did I expect. She’s our sister.” He shook his head.

The ghost dog proved to be a benediction for him. In his life, Mycroft Holmes had accumulated a fair amount of regrets and guilt (though not as many as he could have on his own). Whether the dark, angry shapes were the personification of these, or actual demons, he didn’t know. He knew that he would have been very sorry not to have the dog with him. Growling and lunging, the setter made sure that no one would dare to touch him. Mycroft wasn’t sure what would be in the light, but he was taking his chances. He didn’t try to bring the dog along. Sherlock wouldn’t forgive him if he did.

Weirdly enough, the next to die – and to find her rest among both legitimate and fake graves – was Eurus herself. Yes, she was the youngest…and oddly, if she was still under maximum security (or if that security had worked on her in the first place) she would have undoubtedly survived everyone. You couldn’t talk already drunk drivers into behaving responsibly, though, and in the crash between a small truck and a fifty-something brilliant woman, the truck won.

Eurus wouldn’t have expected to be mourned, years before, but now she definitely was – and Sherlock thought he’d make her happy burying her in the cemetery she so insisted on creating. Ooops… “I’m…sorry?” she said tentatively, when the wet, glaring dog approached her. Her arms were stretched, hands opened, half in self-protection and half in a placating gesture.

The dog sat, but clearly would not allow her to take another step. Other, even less amicable shadows were approaching.

“In my defence, I thought _he_ ’d be around any minute! You know, with his congenital inability to make friends…”

The shadow dog actually growled lowly at that, and looked unimpressed.

“…Okay, I was wrong, but I didn’t know back then, did I? He didn’t exactly have tons of friends. What he did have, was tons of pissed off people. And we couldn’t follow him around every second! I just thought, well, if he’s going to have his skull caved in by some angry bully any day, I might as well make sure he’s not so alone. I honestly didn’t think that he’d last so long! And I managed to send you some company, didn’t I?” her words were rushed, but she finally crossed her arms, looking defiant.

The dog seemed to appreciate the sentiment. He lay down, and beat the grass with his phantom tail. For a couple of seconds, that was…until he seemed to lunge at her. Eurus flinched and stumbled, but he was actually attacking one of her pursuers, who almost caught her, so focused she was on the pet. With the road free in front of her, Eurus didn’t ask questions. She ran. She doubted things would be simple, but at least she could step forwards. Of course, she sneered at herself, the light at the end of the tunnel could be an incoming train…

 The next guest was, once again, not the dog’s master. Frankly, the poor pup was starting to be mightily annoyed.  A quick sniff said that this new soul was tied to his person, though, and very deeply. It helped that the newcomer didn’t seem scared at all. The bad ones were always scared of him, for some reason. In fact, the new one – a blond, shortish man – enjoyed petting him, and playing with him, and almost looked as if he wanted to stay, too. The dog wouldn’t hear of it.

He was supposed to stay – of course he was, until this place was closed for good (which he really hoped would mean his master would come) but people shouldn’t linger. Not just because there was more to see, more to do. Because the setter wasn’t sure what the bad things were, but he suspected they might have overstayed their welcome. Maybe. Who knew. He never got close enough to get a good enough whiff. His master would be angry if he let his mate be ruined by dawdling there just to play.

It wasn’t long after this one, when finally Sherlock arrived. And…he stared at the poor, sodden pup? After a silence that seemed eternal, despite being no more than a beat, he blinked and said, “Redbeard…?”

The ghost setter’s tail wagged so hard he would have sprained it if he’d still had his own body. What was wrong with master? Why the hesitation?

“But she said…oh, of course. Another fiction.” His brain had clung to the truth, even under his sister’s spell. The mental image of a human friend eating from a dog bowl should have been hint enough. Besides, why would she have been sectioned after setting fire to the house and not after murdering a child? Why was there no investigation, to the point where the bones were still in the well? Could Victor’s parents be that uncaring? A dog, instead… now things made sense. “I’m sorry, Redbeard. Come here.”

The dog jumped into Sherlock’s open arms, licking and nuzzling anything he could reach.

Sherlock giggled. “John will be waiting for us. Race you to him! Run, Redbeard!”

Man and dog left the eerie graveyard behind, happy barks and laughs fading away in a brumal midnight.


End file.
